Something Stirring
by snapslikethis
Summary: Lily Potter is one of the few brave enough to fight in the war-one they seem to be losing. She is a soldier, wife, sister, friend. The last thing she expects, needs, is to be a mum. Yet, when exactly that happens, Lily does what she's always done-she picks up her quill. Lily and James's story post-Hogwarts-the war, parenthood, hiding out,all explored through letters to Harry.


a/n

I own nothing, JK owns everything.

Thank you AnxiousPineapples for the cover art.

This is my first fanfiction and I'm rather nervous about posting it. While this starts out fairly angsty I have some pretty funny/sweet moments up ahead. We'll hear a bit from James, and we'll hear the story of how they fell in love-through letters, of course. So while this will span from the day Lily finds out she's pregnant through her death, or close to, we can (and will) go back in time and explore a bit of everything. If you have any suggestions/questions/reviews/critiques, whatever they may be, I would honestly love to hear your thoughts. Thank you!

* * *

Well, hello.

How's that for an introduction? I'll have you know that those two words arranged in that particular order took me a dozen tries and the better part of an hour to work out. After all, what _does _one say by way of greeting in this circumstance? Surprise! Indeed. But then, am I calling you the surprise, or am I describing my own feelings? Both, I suppose, would be appropriate, but that's rather calloused. On the other end, you won't hear me sweetly cooing, "welcome to the world and my womb, precious little baby angel_"-_now or ever. Fear not, sweetheart (veto that-my Aunt Helen was overly fond of that term of endearment, kisses, and liver and onions and not nearly fond enough of peppermints). Your mum may be sentimental, but I am no sop. Frankly, I don't know what to say. I would love nothing more than a strong drink-which my conscience forbids-and a long lie in-prevented by (understandably) excessive thoughts.

Damn. One paragraph in and you're convinced your mum's a nutter. Then again, precious (No, no. I've a muggle series about a ring called precious). By the time I let you read this letter-if I let you, that is, and if you've any interest-the fact that your mum is barmy will be old news. That I'm writing at all is progress as I've spent the better part of the day in denial. Despite my best efforts at pretending otherwise, however, reality is beginning to settle over me like a blanket-an itchy, uncomfortable blanket, perhaps, but covering me nonetheless. You _are_ real. This _is_ happening. I'm not willing to say it out loud, just yet, for to give voice would make it true. While this letter is addressed to you, my motive is rather selfish. You see, writing-cliche though it may be-is the simplest way to express my thoughts. I drive James (your father. James, a father!) mad because he is always so damn sure of his feelings; good or bad, the boy knows himself. That self assurance, by the way, is one of the things I love most about him. I, on the other hand, _need_ to put quill to parchment to make sense of anything at all. So here I am, quite awake at quarter to three, quill in hand, trying to order my muddled thoughts into something comprehensible. That's the impossible task, isn't it? But I've got to try, baby (veto-unoriginal), for both our sakes.

I suppose that, after denial and shock, I am mostly…petrified. Not terrified, mind you, terror is a familiar friend. I know too well the fear that turns veins to ice, slows time infinitesimally as seconds become hours. When terror takes hold-and I hope you never, _ever_ know what I mean when I say this-it's all instinct, no room for thought. Terror incites action, movement; self-preservation kicks in and I am compelled to save myself. (Assuming, of course, there is something I _can _do to save myself.) _This_ fear, though, this fear is paralyzing. All I can do is think; the thoughts are suffocating me. I am frozen with the weight of them-a statue turned stone in the witch's courtyard. Who will come and wake me up? Who _can_? We, your father, myself, our friends, our comrades, _we_ are the ones trying to put things to right here. In our reality, magic might be real, but there are no magical lions to come and rescue us.

I hate to admit this-but since I am already acknowledging unpleasant truths in this letter, what the hell-we are losing. We are losing, battle by battle, death by death, and I cannot see how we will win. But we must, because what is the alternative? I forfeit my wand, my husband, my life, _your _life? The lives of how many others are at stake if we fail? More than I can count, and in more ways than I can fathom. So we fight, I fight, whether or not we will win. Survival, rather than victory, is our mantra. What business have I, bringing a child into this? My life is composed of missions, clandestine meetings, death tolls, stiff drinks, nightmares. I can barely care for myself, and I am going to be a mum? Bloody hell, I'm nineteen. I am a soldier. As I scratch away, as if to prove my point, James-that's your dad-is currently out _Merlin-knows-where_ doing _Merlin-knows-what _for the Order. He is one hundred and seventeen minutes late. See? Petrified.

Despite all this madness, wee one (No. Can you _imagine_ the toilet humor the boys-your uncles-would dish out for _that_? Trust me, it's better that we don't.), and here's the clincher-I'm not sure that I care. That's biology at work, certainly, for it's not rationality. Everything I just wrote about _is _true, and it's horrible and messy and wrong. I _am _just a teenager playing at house, playing war. I could, and maybe ought to, try to muddle through _how_ you happened (which I do know, actually, and am sure that you probably don't), _why_ you are currently residing inside my body, but I won't. For if I allow myself to start _questioning_, I've learnt the hard way that the questions won't stop there-they never do-and I'll drown. And I could stew and rage at the unfairness of everything. I could, because it is unfair that it should be James and I, that you should be born to parents who are already marked in more ways than one.

Ultimately, though, I know that fairness and answers are irrelevant. How in the hell this happened doesn't matter, it only matters that it did-that you did-and I can't go back and undo it. Really, I'm not sure that I want to. For beyond the fear, the anger, the sadness, I feel something stirring-a fierce protectiveness, for you. Not much, I know, but it's the best I can manage at the moment. As such, I will do what I can to keep you safe. I still have _no idea_ what to call you, but that's least of our worries, don't you think? I'll ask your dad; he's rather clever with nicknames. I just have work out how I am going to tell him about you first.

from,

Lily  
(your mum)


End file.
